


Some Grey Place

by steelplatedhearts



Category: Seven Psychopaths (2012)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-07-06
Updated: 2013-07-06
Packaged: 2017-12-17 21:14:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,046
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/872025
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/steelplatedhearts/pseuds/steelplatedhearts
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Billy’s leaning against the doorframe, smirking. Maybe Marty’s hallucinating again. Maybe Billy really is a ghost. Right now, Marty doesn’t give a shit."<br/>Post-movie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Grey Place

He keeps the fucking dog.

He’s a cute little shit, for all that he was inadvertently responsible for about seven deaths, and considering his owner is both a) a murderous psychopath and b) in jail, he takes Bonny to Billy’s house, gives him some food and water, and leaves him alone. The dog seems to know the layout of Billy’s apartment fine, and he curls up on the couch and quickly falls asleep.

“It’s been a big fucking day for everyone,” Marty says, scratching Bonny behind the ears. “This calls for a drink.”

He’s three-quarters through a bottle of—he doesn’t even know _what_ it is anymore, just that it’s alcoholic—when a voice next to him says, “You’ve really got to stop drinking so much, Marty.”

He turns, and Billy’s sitting at the other end of the couch like he’s never left it, like he’s been there the whole time, waiting.

Marty stares at him, then turns to inspect the bottle. “I’m drunk.”

Billy snorts. “Well, no _shit_.”

“I’m going to bed,” Marty says, staggering to his feet. “When I wake up in the morning, I am going to have a terrible hangover and you won’t be here.”

“Suit yourself,” Billy says. “Bonny and I can just hang out. Hey, Bonny—paw. _Paw_.”

Bonny ignores him, which Marty is thankful for. If Bonny had actually responded, he’d have to actively deal with—whatever this is. He doesn’t have the energy today.

*   *   *   *   *  

When he lurches into the kitchen the next morning, squinting against the light and running into chairs, Billy’s sitting at the kitchen table with a wide smile on his face.

“Christ,” Marty groans. “You’re still here.”

“It’s my house,” Billy points out, entirely too reasonably for a hallucination. “Where else would I go?”

“Hell, probably,” Marty grunts. “I can’t imagine you got into heaven, what with your whole ‘killing women’ thing.”

Billy snorts. “You’re gonna have to get over that, man. I killed five people over the last couple of days. Only one of those was a woman. That makes—” He pauses, jaw going slack as he stares off into space. “Um—carry the one—eighty percent? Yeah, that makes eighty percent of the people killed men. So there.”

“You still shot a woman in the stomach,” Marty says. “And—wait, we’re getting off the subject.”

“There was a subject?”

“Yeah, Billy, it’s the subject of _you’re dead_.”

Billy raises his eyebrows. “Oh yeah. Forgot about that.”

“I’m hallucinating,” Marty says to himself. “I’ve got to be.”

“Maybe I’m a ghost,” Billy says, leaning back. “Maybe this is some _Sixth Sense_ type shit.”

“That’s bullshit, Billy,” Marty says. “You’re a stress-induced hallucination, that’s all. And I’m going to ignore you until you go away.”

“Oh, that’s nice,” Billy says, irritated. “After everything I’ve done for you, man?”

Marty says nothing.

*   *   *   *   *  

He says nothing for the next week.

He doesn’t do much of anything, either—just sits and drinks and watches crap TV, staring ahead at the screen without really seeing it.

Billy doesn’t go away. He sits at the other end of the couch and laughs at the shows, mocks the reality stars, and complains about the commercials, and after a while, Marty starts wishing that he’d hallucinated Hans instead. At least then there’d be quiet.

“Why won’t you talk to me, Marty?” Billy says one day.

Marty doesn’t respond. He doesn’t want to encourage the hallucination by talking back.

“I’m not going to go away just because you don’t talk to me,” Billy says. “I’ll just get _bored_ , and you don’t want to see how that ends.”

Marty shifts uncomfortably, but doesn’t answer.

“Here’s a hint,” Billy says, lowering his voice and leaning in, like he’s got some big secret. “It usually ends with things on fire.” He sits back, frowning. “Can I even set things on fire anymore? I mean, if I’m a ghost, aren’t I incorpo-whatsit? Everything’ll just pass right through me.”

 _You’re not a ghost, you’re a hallucination_ , Marty wants to say.

But he doesn’t.

“You know what, if you won’t talk to me, I think it’s time for experiments on my incorporeality,” Billy says, heading for the kitchen. It takes a great effort, but Marty keeps his eyes fixed on the television.

There’s silence for a while, and Marty relaxes a little bit. Maybe Billy’s gone.

Then the smoke alarm goes off.

Marty leaps to his feet and runs into the kitchen, where a small fire’s consuming the table.

He reacts on pure instinct—scoops Bonny up, grabs Billy by the collar, and runs outside. He hands the dog off to Billy and heads back inside to find a fire extinguisher.

“What is wrong with you?” he explodes after the fire is safely extinguished, marching outside and waving the fire extinguisher in the air.

“It worked, didn’t it?” Billy asks, raising an eyebrow. “You’re talking to me, and we’ve proved I’m solid! It’s a win all around. Also, I appreciate you trying to save me from the fire. That was nice.”

“I wasn’t trying to _save you_ ,” Marty grumbles. “I was trying to stop you from burning anything else.”

“Still counts,” Billy says triumphantly.

*   *   *   *   *  

Kaya calls two days later and invites him to lunch.

“I’m sorry about Billy,” she says, looking at him from across the table like he’s a wounded animal.

“No, you’re not,” Billy says, snorting. “Fucking bitch.”

Marty winces. “Thanks, Kaya.”

“Don’t get me wrong—I’m still really fucking pissed at you,” she says. But I’ve been reading about this whole mess in the papers, and I just wanted to see if you were okay.”

“Well _that’s_ fucking thoughtful,” Billy says, throwing a crouton past her face. She doesn’t react, doesn’t even notice.

“I’m doing fine,” Marty says, trying to glare at Billy without Kaya noticing. “I mean, it’s not easy finding out your best friend’s a serial killer—”

“Oh, come _on_ ,” Billy says, leaning over the table and resting his head on his arms. “I only did it for you, man.”

“Marty, are you all right?” Kaya asks, alarmed.

“What? Yeah. Fine,” Marty says.

She doesn’t seem convinced. “You keep flinching.”

“Just a bit twitchy. I’m fine, Kaya. Really.”

She bites her lip. “Look, Marty, I just—I want to make it clear, we’re not getting back together.”

“Thank fuck for that,” Billy says. “I don’t want to spend my afterlife with you if you’re going to be hanging around with this bitch.”

“I know,” Marty says.

“But I am worried about you,” Kaya says, voice serious. “I’m angry, but I don’t want you to completely go off the deep end. Just—let me know if you need anything, okay?”

“Why would he need anything from you?” Billy asks. “He’s got me, don’t he?”

“I will,” Marty says. “Thanks, Kaya. I’m sorry I was such an asshole. You didn’t deserve that.”

“No,” she says, smiling in a way that doesn’t quite reach her eyes. “I didn’t.”

“Did too, you bitch,” Billy says.

The rest of lunch passes with small talk and Billy trying his best to get a reaction out of someone. Marty never gives in to his instinct, never turns to tell Billy to _knock it off, already_ , but it’s a close call, and Kaya looks increasingly worried as lunch goes on.

Thankfully, she doesn’t say anything.

“She has a _name_ , you know,” Marty says, mumbling out of the corner of his mouth as he and Billy walk down the street after lunch.

“Yeah, but I don’t have to fucking use it,” Billy says, bouncing slightly on his toes. “She wouldn’t kill _five people_ just for you, so you don’t have to use her name either.”

“Yes, I do,” Marty says, despairing. “It’s called _basic human decency_.”

But Billy’s stopped listening. Marty didn’t really expect anything different.

*   *   *   *   *  

“Maybe I should see a psychiatrist.”

Billy gives Marty a look of disgust from his place on the couch. “Why the fuck would you go see a psychiatrist?”

“Because I’m hallucinating,” Marty says. “That’s what you _do_ when you hallucinate—you go to a psychiatrist and get rid of it.”

Billy looks wounded. “You want to get rid of me?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Marty says. “Nothing against you, but the fact that you’re here at all means something’s fucked in my head.”

“I told you, I think I’m a ghost,” Billy says. “I probably have some unfinished business.”

“Ghosts aren’t _real_ ,” Marty says. “ _You_ aren’t real.”

“Says who?” Billy asks with a snort. “You? _I_ think I’m real.”

“Yeah, well, you’re a psychopath.”

Billy just shrugs. “Doesn’t mean I can’t think I’m real.”

*   *   *   *   *  

He goes to the fridge for a beer later, only to find Billy standing in front of the door, glaring sternly at him.   
“Can you move?” Marty asks, stepping back and folding his arms defensively.

“No can do, Marty,” Billy says. “You’ve got a screenplay to write.”

Marty scoffs, heading into the living room. “I told you, that’s not what I want to be writing about anymore.”

Billy leaps over a couch, whipping around and coming to a stop in front of Marty, who screeches to a halt to avoid contact. “So what _do_ you want to be writing about then?”

“Something happy,” Marty says, staring out the window. “Something with less blood and death.”

“You _always_ do this,” Billy says, glaring. “You come up with a great idea, and then you get sidetracked and distracted—”

“And whose fault is _that_?” Marty asks, glaring right back. “You were the one who dragged me out in the middle of the fucking desert!”

“Nah, man. It’s all on you,” Billy says. “You had a great idea, and now you’re trying to pussy out.”

“I’m not pussying out,” Marty snaps. “I’m just—”

“You’re pussying out,” Billy says. “I _died_ for this screenplay. I killed five people for this screenplay, okay, so you _owe me._ ”

“I didn’t ask you to die,” Marty says. “And I _definitely_ didn’t ask you to kill anyone.”

“Well, I did,” Billy says, settling on the couch. “Are you gonna let all that go to waste?”

Marty sinks into a chair, leans his elbows on the table and buries his head in his hands. _This is a dream_ , he tells himself. _He’ll be gone when you open your eyes. You can control what goes on in your own head_.

He waits a beat, then looks up, straight into Billy’s eyes. Billy’s leaning on the table directly across from him, with the most serious look Marty’s ever seen.

“Write the screenplay,” Billy says, and Marty reaches for his notepad.

*   *   *   *   * 

He spends the first two days staring blankly at his notepad and clutching a cup of coffee that gradually gets colder and colder until it’s ice.

He doesn’t want to write this fucking screenplay.

It was a stupid idea in the first place, and having spent a significant amount of time with real-life psychopaths dulls the appeal even more.

Not to mention the constant presence of a possibly-real-life-possibly-imaginary psychopath. That _definitely_ dulls the appeal.

Marty spends most of those first few days thinking about the problem of Billy and his confusing and unexplained existence. At first, he’d just assumed Billy was a temporary, stress-induced hallucination. But the days wore on, and Billy didn’t disappear.

Maybe Billy’s tied to the movie.

It makes sense. Billy was so insistent that he get the screenplay done, so insistent that he was apparently willing to kill five people and _die_.

Maybe if he finishes the script, Billy will disappear.

It’s not exactly a sane, rational plan, but it’s the only one he’s got.

*   *   *   *   * 

“Are you going to put in my shootout?”

“No,” Marty says, taking a sip of coffee. “It was kind of a mess, narratively speaking. No offense. Also, I have never in my life said ‘bejesus.’”

“You just did,” Billy points out.

“Okay, so I said it once. But it’s not something I’d say in the middle of a fucking shootout.”

Billy’s silent for a moment, watching Marty type. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier, man?”

Marty shrugs, fingers flying over the keyboard. “I dunno. I just didn’t.”

“Why are you telling me now?”

“You’re dead,” Marty says. “I figure it can’t hurt.”

Billy tips his head over the back of the couch, laughing. “You gotta wait till I’m dead to tell me the truth? What kind of bullshit is that?”

“I just didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

Billy gets up and walks over to the kitchen table, spinning a chair around and sitting down backwards. “Well, no feelings to worry about now. I’m dead. Anything _else_ you feel like confessing?”

Marty doesn’t look up from the screen. “No.”

He keeps typing, eyes glued to the words appearing in front of him, and he hears Billy get up and leave, wandering out on the back porch. He stays out there for a while, watching the sunset, while Marty types away.

*   *   *   *   *  

 “It’s done.”

“Hey!” Billy says, face breaking out in a broad grin. “All right!”

Marty dumps the stack of pages on the table in front of Billy and collapses on the couch. Billy lunges for the manuscript and starts to read.

It’s the quietest that Marty’s ever seen him. He’s still and calm, flipping through the pages, savoring each word.

It’s a nice change, but fundamentally bizarre, and Marty thinks he’d be more comfortable if Billy was making snarky comments.

“So here’s what I don’t get,” Billy says finally, thunking the script down on the table. “There’s psychopath number one, Jack O’Diamonds. There’s Hans, the mob boss, the Vietcong-slash-Buddhist guy, Zachariah and Maggie, and then me, who’s _also_ Jack. That’s only six. It’s called ‘seven psychopaths’, not ‘seven psychopaths because we counted one guy twice.’ So who’s the seventh?”

Marty refills his glass, ignoring Billy’s disapproving glare. “Me.”

Billy laughs, long and loud and _weird_ , and how the hell did it take so long for Marty to notice his psychopathic tendencies, anyway? “You’re not a psychopath, Marty.”

“What, takes one to know one?” Marty snorts. “Please. My best friend in the world is a serial killer who went and got himself shot in the head. Now I’m either hallucinating or—or being _haunted_ , and either way that doesn’t say anything good about me.”

“I’m your best friend?”

Marty scoffs. “Yeah. Strangely enough.”

Billy wanders over to the window, leaning his forehead against the glass, smiling softly as he stares out over the city. “Thanks, man.”

“I’m going to bed,” Marty says. “I’ll take the script down in the morning.”

Billy doesn’t answer, just closes his eyes and leans closer to the window, smile still on his face.

*   *   *   *   *  

When Marty wakes up, Billy is gone.

He eats breakfast slowly, chewing every bite of toast carefully and deliberately. He takes his time showering and getting dressed. By the time he picks up his final script and heads out the door, it’s almost noon.

Billy has not reappeared.

*   *   *   *   *  

“Nice to see you among the living,” his agent says, raising an eyebrow.

“I know it’s been a while, John,” Marty says, placing the script on his desk, “but this is—I don’t know. I think it’s worth a look, at any rate.” John picks the manuscript up, flipping through the first couple of pages. “But just a heads up, there might be some legal issues—it’s a true story.”

That gets John’s attention. “A true story?”

“This is why I’ve been off the map recently,” Marty says. “Look, just read it. It’ll make sense, I promise.”

Marty sits in a little coffee shop two doors down from John’s office while John reads the script. He orders a large coffee, black, and a large, flaky, croissant that he picks bits and pieces off of while he stares mindlessly at the street and definitely doesn’t think about Billy or where he’s gone.

He goes back to John’s office two hours later.

“Marty,” John says, face serious, “I don’t know where the hell this script came from, but it’s going to be big, I guarantee it.”

“Oh.”

“I’ll find someone who’ll want to make it, no problem,” John says. “Any opinions?”

Marty has plenty of opinions swirling around in his head, but the only one he’s able to understand and articulate is, “I want Kaya’s actress to be someone likeable.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” John says after a moment.

*   *   *   *   *  

Things move very quickly after that.

John calls every other day with updates. Somehow, he gets the script to Tarantino, who loves it. Tarantino calls, which is a surreal experience.

“Make sure you get someone likeable for Kaya,” Marty says.

He’s not sure why he’s stuck on that.  

They give him final say on casting, which John tells him is extremely rare. Marty doesn’t really have any strong feelings, so he okays everything that comes his way, including John Malkovitch as Hans, Nathan Fillion as Charlie, Berenice Marlohe as Angela, and Jennifer Lawrence as Kaya.

The last is a shock, as Kaya’s only in the movie for about 10 minutes total.

“You said you wanted someone likeable,” John says. “What’s the problem?”

“Isn’t she a little too famous for this?” Marty asks, trying to balance his sandwich, a beer, and the phone all at once.

“Marty, your movie’s being directed by _Tarantino_ ,” John points out. “I told you, this is going to be big. You know they’re looking at Kerry Washington for Maggie?”

“You’re kidding,” Marty says in shock. “Why would Kerry Washington want to be in this? Maggie doesn’t even have lines!”

“Then write her some,” John says. “You’re going to have to get to the rewrites soon, anyway.”

So he does. He expands Maggie’s part, gives her some good lines, and writes a subplot involving Kaya and Charlie. It lightens the plot up some, and gives Jennifer something to do.

They cast him and Billy last.

Tarantino calls him again, asking about his opinions. “The Marty and Billy relationship is the foundation of the movie,” he says, “so we want to get it right.”

“I’d go with unknown actors,” Marty says. “Maybe not for Marty, but for Billy, definitely. Someone you won’t quite recognize.”

Cillian Murphy gets cast as him, which isn’t what Marty would have guessed. They seem to be alike only in that they’re both Irish, but that’s what acting is for, Marty supposes. He’s a nice enough man, at least.

Billy’s actor is a complete unknown—only had a few commercials and one indie movie to his name when he showed up at the audition. But, according to everyone who was there, he’s a brilliant actor, and had perfect chemistry with Cillian.

His name is Daniel Adams, and Marty doesn’t like him.

He watches the audition tape, watches this man who looks nothing like Billy become him perfectly, and switches it off almost immediately, heading into the kitchen to find a drink.

He doesn’t watch them film anything, no matter how many times he’s invited down to the set. He’ll see it all at the premiere, anyway.

*   *   *   *   *  

He goes over to Kaya’s house with a bouquet of tulips.

“I figured roses would be too weird,” he says at her raised eyebrow. “Can I come in?”

“Sure,” she says, standing aside. “How’s the movie going?”

“Pretty good, I think,” he says. “We got Jennifer Lawrence to play you.”

“I heard,” she says, taking the flowers.

“That was my only condition,” Marty says. “That they get you a really great actress.”

She smiles. “Thanks.”

The silence stretches out, awkwardly long. “So,” Kaya says finally, “what’s up?”

“I thought you might want to come to the premiere with me,” Marty says. “Not—not as a date or anything, just as a friend.”

She looks at the flowers, smiling sadly. “Are we even friends, Marty?”

“God, I hope so,” Marty says. “Otherwise I’ve got nobody.”

“I’ll come with you,” Kaya says. “You have to introduce me to Brad Pitt, if he shows up.”

“It’s a deal,” Marty says.

*   *   *   *   *  

The premiere is fine, which is better than Marty expected.

The red carpet isn’t so bad—he poses for the camera with the cast, pulls faces at the cameras with Jennifer, and doesn’t have to answer too many questions.

Watching the actual movie, however, is rough.

He has to force himself to sit and watch the entire thing. Tarantino had wanted to get him and Billy as accurate as possible, and he’d succeeded.

Cillian brings his own energy to the role that isn’t quite Marty, but something better. Daniel, however—

Daniel _is_ Billy.

Marty watches a cinematic version of himself drink and drink, get covered in blood repeatedly, and then run out on his best friend.

He just leaves Billy in the middle of the fucking desert.

It wasn’t like he had other options, he tells himself. There was nothing he could have done. But no matter how much he repeats it to himself, he can’t quite believe it. Seeing it on screen, in full-blown color with a soundtrack and different faces makes it obvious that he abandoned Billy. There’s no way around it.

He doesn’t get a respite after the movie. No, it’s off to a party to mix and mingle with the stars.

There’s a parade of people in brightly colored dresses and handsome suits telling him how touching the film was, how deep and meaningful, how beautiful. A pattern starts to emerge: the bits people loved most were the story of the Quaker and the final story of the Buddhist.

Neither of which Marty technically wrote.

 _I’m a fucking hack,_ he thinks to himself, standing in the corner and clutching his drink.

If Billy was here, he’d say something like _you’re not a hack, man, you’re the greatest writer of your generation_ , but he can’t say any of that, because he’s fucking dead.

He’s fucking dead.

*   *   *   *   *  

When Zachariah calls, it’s almost a relief.

The days since the premiere had been _shit_ , and that’s putting it lightly. He’s stopped returning Kaya’s calls, and she’s stopped calling in return. John hasn’t given up yet, but he will, eventually. Marty’s surprised everyone hasn’t left yet, after seeing how he treats his friends.

He sees scenes from the movie when he closes his eyes, sees Not-Him running away from Not-Billy. He can’t stand it, because Billy is gone, and he can’t apologize, can’t do _anything._

So, when Zachariah decides to kill him on Tuesday, he feels the slightest creeping sense of relief.

But then Tuesday doesn’t work.

“I’ll be right here,” Marty says. _Come by whenever the fuck you want._

Zachariah sighs. “I know you will.”

He hangs up, and Marty doesn’t put the phone down, doesn’t even move.

“Now _this_ is the perfect time for a shootout.”

Billy’s leaning against the doorframe, smirking. Maybe Marty’s hallucinating again. Maybe Billy really _is_ a ghost. Right now, Marty doesn’t give a shit.

“Jesus _Christ_ , Billy,” Marty says, pulling him into a hug. He’s solid and warm and so very, very real, which should be concerning. It isn’t.

“I don’t think you’ve ever been this happy to see me,” Billy says, wrapping his arms around Marty. “I should leave more often.”

“ _I_ left _you_ ,” Marty says. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry—”

“I wanted you to, remember?” Billy says. “The movie ended my way. I’m touched you feel so bad, though. Don’t worry, you can’t get rid of me that easy.”     

 “It’s been weird around here without you,” Marty says. “Just—you know, it’s—don’t—”

“You’re stuck with me, Marty,” Billy says with a grin. “For as long as you want me around, anyway.” He pauses, grimacing slightly. “If you _do_ want me around.”

“I—yeah, Billy,” Marty says, staring down into his drink. “I really want you around.”

They sit in silence for a moment, staring into the dark. “So, you’re okay with me possibly maybe being a hallucination?” Billy asks.

“I dunno,” Marty says. “Are _you_ okay with being a hallucination?”

“I feel real,” Billy says. “Maybe that’s enough.”

Marty smiles, downing his drink. “If you think it’s enough, then it’s enough.”

Billy smirks at him, then makes a face at Marty when he gets another drink, and in that moment, everything is as it should be. Hallucination, ghost—who gives a shit, Marty thinks. Billy’s there.

Billy’s there, and the world is a little bit brighter. 


End file.
